The Making of Us
by torchwholockian-potterhead
Summary: Johnlock! My take on how they get together. Pre-Reichenbach Johnlock fluff
1. An Evening Like Any Other

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did there would be a heck of a lot more Johnlock!**

* * *

**John**

"I'm not his date!" I called after the waiter in vain. That was all I needed after another heavy-going case solved by the one and only Sherlock Holmes: another idiot assuming that the one and only Sherlock Holmes and I, his blogger, were an item.

"He should get his dog treated," Sherlock mused, hands pressed flat together as though in prayer and fingers just brushing his lips.

"What?" I asked, distracted from my earlier irritation.

"He has a dog, probably a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and unless I am very much mistaken- which is extremely unlikely- it has given him fleas." He stared, unblinking, at the area the man had just vacated.

I smiled. No matter what Anderson or the others said, I knew Sherlock was a talented, if a little annoying, genius and I was more than glad of his presence in my life.

**Sherlock**

Why did John always feel the need to protest so loudly when we were mistaken for a couple? It only disturbed my precious thinking time. I would never, I concluded, understand the ways of the average person.

I mollified him by revealing a meaningless deduction that I had had about our waiter and experienced an involuntary swell of pride when he smiled at me.

Pride was an increasingly frequent by-product of being in John's company. Not bad pride that makes people boast (like my brother, for instance) but a nice, warm, pleasant pride. I knew I would have to address this at some point; it wasn't the only emotion that strengthened around John and distracted me, joy and jealousy had too and it was scaring me. **_Emotions are for those who cannot rely on their minds, _**I told myself, **_you need to get rid of them to preserve the integrity of yours._**

**John**

While I ate, Sherlock sat silently, a pensive look set on his alabaster face.

Electricity ricocheted around my arm as my hand brushed his reaching for the salt. What was wrong with me? I stifled a gasp and hastily completed my meal.

"221B?" I asked my flatmate.

"221B." Sherlock smiled a rare, glowing, dazzling smile that commanded my attention. He donned his scarf, swished his coat on and turned up the collar, "You never know, there might be another case waiting for us when we get back!" His grin widened and I physically couldn't look at anything else, other than his glittery supernova eyes.

"There'd better not be!" I followed him into a taxi.

**Sherlock**

I was so hyped from the case that I resorted to watching Countdown with John to calm down.

"I don't know how they do this," John told nobody in particular, "I'm rubbish with words and pretty bad at numbers too!"

"Of course you are, John." I agreed and closed my eyes to aid thinking as I searched for the answer to the conundrum.

Throughout the extent of my frankly impressive vocabulary, I could only find one word and one visual definition:

"John!" I gasped under my breath. I was in my mind palace and so was he, sat in his armchair- when did that get here?- with his hand running through his hair.

"What?"

My eyes snapped open at his voice, "Hmm? Nothing, sorry."

I hid my befuddlement as I wondered how John had prised his way into such an integral part of my brain and seamlessly ejected all other knowledge in his wake. **_Oh well, _**I thought, **_I can address that later. _**

Back to words. I left John where he was and made my way to the word room. There was a figure at the end of the corridor, John was here too! He told me that I was remarkable before I disintegrated him with my mind and opened the door. Every drawer should have had a different label to correspond with its context but it didn't. They were all labelled with the same four-letter word: **John**.

**_OK, this is getting weird._**

I opened one drawer, then the next, then the next. The same. All words in _my_ word room in _my _Mind Palace were the same! Everything was John!

I hastily drew breath. What was happening to me?

**John**

"Have you got it then?" I asked Sherlock, taking his minor outburst to mean that he had solved the puzzle, brilliantly as usual.

"No." Anyone who didn't know Sherlock the way I did would have thought he was simply a little annoyed at himself for not knowing but I could see turmoil behind those immersive eyes. I also knew better than to react to this; the best action was definitely to let him sort himself out.

They revealed the solution and he flew off the handle, "Damn it!"

The consulting detective attacked the arm of the chair with his fist and swept out of the room. As I followed him out with my eyes, I realised that my gaze was heading Southwards towards Sherlock's backside which, from my angle, was quite prominent. It was impressive, too.

Wait! What?

Where did _that_ come from?

However it got into my head, it could bloody well get back out! I frowned and hauled myself upstairs to bed.

* * *

**Author's note: Hey :) This is my first Sherlock fic, I hope you like :) Reviews please, constructive criticism is always good! ~Abi**


	2. Dreams

**Sherlock**

I was dreaming my usual lucid dream, permanently filing away all the useful gems of information I had gained in the days since I had last slept. I would soon have to get another extension on my Palace, as it was filling up again. Perhaps an extra spire...

Bored now.

What good is a lucid dream if you can't think of anything to do?

Bored, bored, _bored!_

Where could I go? Life was mundane enough without having to kill time while asleep _and_ awake!

How about the flat? I could play the violin until I woke. I willed the front door with the wonky doorknocker to be behind me, emblazoned with the bold characters '221B'. Instead I found a short-ish, blonde army doctor grinning where the door should have been.

"John! What are you doing here? I didn't tell my mind to bring you here." I enquired.

"You were bored, so I came." John maintained his gentle smile.

"I don't understand. I don't know why you're here and I don't like not knowing."

"You were bored." He repeated, "I'm here to help."

Frustration was germinating in the pit of my stomach; my mind was acting of its own accord and it didn't make sense. I was confused and I didn't like it. How would John help me alleviate my boredom anyway?

I was overcome by an impromptu urge to reach out and hold John in my arms. It was as if the part of my subconscious that had given me John, was explaining the reason for him being there, as though simply embracing him would be enough. Regrettably, having had no prior experience in doing such things, I did not know whether or not they would work.

There was one tried and tested method though, solving cases. I then began the world's only consulting detective's enquiry into the Case of the Recurring Appearances of Dr Watson.

John could have thought of a catchier title.

**John**

I was dreaming my usual harrowing renditions of the deaths of my friends and comrades. The worst part was always waking up and finding out anew that they weren't nightmares, but memories.

A particularly horrific fate was imminently befalling Private Jones, a Welshman I had known well before his untimely fall from life. Gas attack.

"John," Someone was behind me, somebody with a smooth, deep voice, somebody who sounded an awful lot like-

"Sherlock!" I whipped around and there he was, large as life, unruly, raven hair hung about his face in that perfectly imperfect way that only Sherlock can achieve.

"Hello John." He was smiling that light-up-the-room smile and was sporting his typical coat-and-suit ensemble with a crimson scarf looped around his porcelain neck.

I blinked. We were suddenly in our apartment living room.

I was drawn to him by an invisible yet insistent force until, as he stooped a little, there were millimetres between his face and mine. Sherlock closed the gap.

We were kissing! I was _kissing_ Sherlock Holmes! We were kissing and it felt _good_!

My hands were lost in his curls and his were anchoring me by the waist.

That was when I woke up.

My pulse gradually slowed from an alarming pace sown to its resting rate, as did my breathing. God, what was happening to me?

**Sherlock**

I woke, as unsure about John as last night.

I did not recognise these symptoms at all and I needed to know what was ailing me. Walking down the hall and through the kitchen, I heard the familiar tap-tap-tapping of John typing another post on his blog.

A cluster of my internal organs seemed to do a back flip as I layed eyes on John. I must have been getting worse. This needed to be sorted and it needed to be sorted now. It was making it hard to think, to concentrate, to do anything but look at John's face, his hair, his eyes. The need for contact was back, a sudden and inescapable _want_.

I had to get some answers as to what was wrong with me and why John seemed to be the epicentre.


	3. Realisations and Declarations

**John**

I felt Sherlock's eyes on me and the fluttering of my heart told me incontrovertibly what had happened. I was in love again. With _Sherlock_ of all people!

A dagger entered my side and slowly twisted as I realised just how much this revelation would impact on my life; Sherlock was married to his job, he said so himself. Even if by some miracle he was capable of romantic attraction, he could and would do so much better than me!

I couldn't tear my eyes from those cheekbones, that hair, those swirling galaxies in his eyes, eyes that were still piercing into mine. He opened his mouth- so inviting!- to speak, "John, you're a doctor," He commented, not even blinking.

"Great deduction." My voice was spiked with sarcasm, "Are you OK?"

"Yes, of course. I, erm, heard about somebody who was having some very odd symptoms and wondered what you, as an expert, would make of them." He sounded so uncharacteristically unsure.

"I'd hardly say expert but go on."

"Well these symptoms are very odd and totally alien to me." Sherlock sat in his chair and I shut my laptop, leaving it on the coffee table for later, "This person experienced a heightened amount of emotional capacity when around one other specific person, the trigger person, it seems, for all the other symptoms. Said trigger person then appeared inside the sufferer's mind and would not leave," Sherlock drew a deep breath, "and then the sufferer, who can lucid dream like I can," I nodded, recalling what Sherlock had told me of lucid dreams, "was asleep and dreamt of the trigger person without deciding to. The most recent occurrences are an odd flapping sensation around the abdomen when in the same room as the trigger person and a peculiar need to touch or hug the trigger person."

I knew what that person was suffering from, exactly the same as I was.

"Well, Doctor John H Watson, what is your diagnosis?" Sherlock asked me. He was trembling a little, maybe he was concerned for the person... if it was possible for Sherlock to _be _concerned about another human being.

"The person you're talking about is," I paused, pondering how only Sherlock could manage not to recognise this, "well, they're in love with the trigger person."

**Sherlock**

Love? I was in love? With John?

Yes!

Love! I was in love! With John!

Brilliant! It all made sense now!

Wait!

No!

Not brilliant!

Very, extremely not brilliant!

If I had learnt anything from romantic subplots in books- which would otherwise have been decent stories- it was that unrequited love could never be anything but unbearably, unfathomably painful. Very ,extremely not brilliant.

There was a spark of hope niggling at the back of my mind- maybe it wasn't unrequited. But how could I ever find out? Even if John _did_, by some miracle, love me back, he would be in the same position as me- fearful of admitting such illogical inclinations.

"So who is it?" John asked, interrupting my tempestuous thoughts.

"Who is what?" I couldn't for the life of me recall who John could be referring to.

"The sufferer. The one in love."

"Oh, him," Uh oh.

"So it's a him!" John smiled, obviously pleased with this 'deduction'. It was an adorable smile.

"Well..." How could I lie? I needed to tell him, to scream it from every rooftop in London! "it... it's me." I studied the carpet with my eyes, wringing my hands and hoping beyond hope that he would take this well.

"R-really? You're in l-love?" His stutter was enough.

It told me that there was something more going on than just shock and that maybe, just maybe, he was entertaining the notion that I loved him. Wasn't he?

**John**

This would be the moment to declare my undying adoration for the man before me. Now I knew he was capable of such things as love, I had to hope beyond hope that that love was directed at me. I needed to take the leap of faith and tell him.

But how could I? After fighting wars, catching serial killers and living on the borderline of certain death, I was still too much of a coward.

"S-so who is it? Who's the trigger?" Stupid voice! It had become almost a squeak!

"The t-trigger person?" Sherlock fumbled, "The trigger person is, err..."

"It's her, isn't it? The woman, Irene Adler."

"No." Sherlock stood and so did I. We met in the centre of the room. His pupils dilated just a fraction.

"Is it who I think it is?" I was breathing erratically now.

"I'm not a mind reader, J-John." He was shuddering, terrified and vulnerable. I was aching to reach out and comfort him.

"You're as close as it gets, just answer." I commanded, then spoke more softly, "Would it help if I told you that the person I think it is is in love with you too?" There! I'd told him!

"Y-yes. It is the person you think it is."


	4. The End

**Sherlock**

There! I'd told him!

Now what?

I found myself lifting my arms to his waist and pressing my lips to Johns. He reacted in an instant, melting around me and turning gentle and reassuring. I was pathetically inexperienced but John guided me and I learnt quickly what to do. I clung onto the thread of hope that he wouldn't notice quite how bad I was.

I wondered how such a simple action could be so satisfying.

**John**

This was real! It was only just over a day since I found out that I wanted this and yet it had felt like an age!

My fingers were intertwined with his silky hair and I had to keep myself from going too far. I reminded myself that Sherlock was so uncertain and I needed to be tender.

**Sherlock**

John was in control and it was so freeing to know that he had the answers and knew what to do, regardless of what happened next.

Was this how John felt solving murders with me?

He leant away as we broke apart, lowering one arm to my shoulder. He was smiling in such a fashion that all I wanted to do was capture his mouth again.

"That... was..." John began, breathing heavily.

He was going to say terrible, I knew he was! He would leave me here, cold and alone.

"-the best kiss I've had in... well, ever!"

**John**

"Really?" Sherlock asked, "I-I did OK?"

"Of course you did! Why wouldn't you have?" This insecurity was so not Sherlock.

"Well I'm hardly an expert in this area."

"Wait, was that-" I thought I'd figured it out, "was that your first kiss?"

He stared pointedly at his shoes and muttered, "Yes."

"Wow!" I breathed, disentangling one hand from his hair and lifting his chin up, "It's alright, you know that? You did great, better than great! It's OK that I'm your first."

"Honestly?" Sherlock still seemed troubled.

"Honestly." I suddenly grinned, "Hey, why don't we make it a second time?"

A luminous beam lit up his face and I crashed my mouth into his.

**Sherlock**

John grew feverish and it excited me in a way I'd never known before. He was pressing for access to my mouth with his tongue and I granted it apprehensively. I wasn't prepared for just how much that simple act could make me feel. I quickly learnt to imitate John's movements and, judging from the appreciative moans escaping him, my efforts were working.

I was breathless, dizzy, I couldn't think or even remember my own name. My brain could have worked at full capacity for any length of time and only produce the same, four-lettered result: John, John, John!

There was a deeper moaning. It took a moment to realise that was my own voice!

Gradually we slowed and parted and I rested my forehead on his.

**John**

It was as though I was finally at home. That day was the day I began the rest of my life with William Sherlock Scott Holmes by my side.

**Sherlock**

It was as though I could finally comprehend the notion of wholly depending on somebody else. That day was, incontrovertibly, the making of us.


End file.
